Pain. A pain as if his entire body was falling apart. But what he sensed even before the pain was moisture—the air held water vapor, crisp and refreshing, carrying a certain sweet fragrance.
Ma Shiliu struggled to lift his eyelids. The first thing he saw was the roof of an unfamiliar tent: made of some light brown coarse cloth, the supporting frame consisting of curved thin wooden poles, the joints bound with leather. Sunlight leaked in through the gaps in the fabric, forming several beams of light, within which floating dust slowly rotated. He tried to move a little, and a tearing pain shot from his left shoulder, causing him to let out a muffled groan. "Awake?"
The voice came from the tent entrance. The curtain was lifted, and a tall figure bent down to enter. The person was about thirty years old, with skin of a deep copper color from years of sun exposure, curly black hair draped over his shoulders, deep-set eye sockets, and a high-bridged nose like an eagle's beak. He wore a loose linen robe, a leather belt around his waist from which hung an ancient-style curved knife. The most striking feature was his eyes—the irises were a rare amber color, appearing like two warm, moist pieces of beeswax in the dim light of the tent.
"Don't move in a hurry; your shoulder was dislocated and has already been reset." The man's Chinese carried a strange accent, but his enunciation was clear. "You fell at the edge of the oasis, guests delivered by the 'Sand Fury'." "Sand Fury?" Ma Shiliu asked in a hoarse voice. "The desert's anger is also the desert's mercy." The man sat down on a low stool at the tent entrance and handed over a pottery bowl. "Drink, date-palm honey water."
Ma Shiliu took the bowl; the cool, slightly sweet liquid slid down his parched throat, and he almost moaned aloud. After finishing the entire bowl, he remembered etiquette: "Thank you… for saving my life. I am Ma Shiliu, from the Ma family caravan of Chang'an. My third uncle and the others—" "They are all here; the few who were injured have already had medicine applied." The man nodded. "I am called Hassan—not the Hassan who is your guide. I am the spring guardian here."
Spring guardian. Ma Shiliu chewed on the word, suddenly becoming aware of the sound coming from outside the tent: it was not the wind, but the sound of water. Murmuring, lively, like the stream he had heard as a boy in the Zhongnan Mountains.
"Can you get up? Come see your new fortune." Hassan extended his hand. Ma Shiliu rose with his help; his left shoulder still hurt, but he could bear it. He followed Hassan out of the tent, and then he froze.
Before his eyes was an oasis he could never have imagined. The first thing that met his gaze was a pool of emerald water—no, not just one pool, but several connected spring eyes merging into a modest yet crystal-clear lake. The water color was that azure green seen only in the finest glazed vessels of Chang'an; the lakebed was paved with white fine sand and smooth, rounded pebbles. Along the shore, tall, lush palm trees spread their broad fronds, rustling in the breeze. Beneath the trees grew luxuriant green grass, interspersed with wildflowers of every color: goose-yellow, pale purple, indigo blue, as if someone had accidentally overturned a dye vat. Farther away, following the terrain, stood low adobe houses with thick thatched roofs; wisps of cooking smoke curled from the chimneys. A few spotted goats grazed leisurely by the lake, and several barefoot children played at the water's edge, their splashing droplets sparkling in the sunlight.
But what shocked Ma Shiliu the most was the people. Several women washing clothes by the lake; one had hair as brilliant as sunlight, golden, her skin so fair it was almost translucent; beside her was another with jet-black curly hair, deep-brown skin, and features as sharply defined as if carved with a knife; farther away, an old man repairing a fishing net had a face similar to those of the Central Plains people, only with slightly deeper eye sockets and a higher nose bridge. "Here…" Ma Shiliu murmured. "This place is called 'Thousand Springs'," the spring guardian Hassan said calmly, "that is what desert travelers call it, because it has many spring eyes. As for the people here—the sand sea is boundless, lost travelers come from all directions. Some found this place and stayed, some continued on their way. Over time, it became like this."
Ma Shiliu saw his third uncle. He was sitting under a date palm tree not far away, with several caravan hands gathered around him, taking inventory of the salvaged goods. A cloth strip was wrapped around his third uncle's forehead, seeping with blood, but he looked spirited enough. When he saw Ma Shiliu, he nodded; his eyes held the exhaustion of having survived a disaster, along with a trace of barely noticeable vigilance. Old Hassan—the caravan's Hassan—was squatting by the lake, scooping up a handful of water with trembling hands, bringing it to his mouth to drink, then closing his eyes as tears slid down his deeply wrinkled face.
"It's real water… real trees…" he murmured. "Forty years… I've walked for forty years… and never knew…"
"The desert hides its treasures and shows them only to those who need them most," the spring guardian Hassan said.
For the rest of that day, the caravan settled down with the help of the oasis residents. The injured were applied a green herbal ointment that was cool and pain-relieving; the frightened camels were led to a special enclosure and fed clear water and fodder; the scattered goods were collected and sorted, with losses smaller than expected—except for the twenty silk paintings, whose oilcloth had been torn in the sandstorm; three were completely ruined, and the rest were stained with sand and soil. "As long as people are alive, that's the greatest blessing," his third uncle said, patting Ma Shiliu's shoulder with somewhat heavy force. "Go rest now. There will be a bonfire tonight, as thanks to our hosts."
At dusk, Ma Shiliu sat in the small tent assigned to him. Though simple, the tent had a clean, soft straw mat and a wool blanket woven with geometric patterns. Outside came lively voices, the rhythm of hand drums, the plucking of a stringed instrument, and laughter—laughter mixed from many different languages.
He checked his pack: the few changes of clothes his mother had prepared were still there; the small wooden box containing the four treasures of the study had cracked, but the ink stick and brushes inside were intact. The most precious item was a thin booklet, his father's handwritten copy of Records of Western Regions Customs, its sheepskin cover already worn. He opened it and saw his father's handwriting: "The country of Dashi has many date palms; its people are skilled in trade… The country of Greece has many white stone halls; its people love debate…" Every page recorded the sights his father had seen during his trading journeys in his youth.
Finally, he reached into the inner pocket at his chest. The tortoiseshell hairpin was intact; its warm, smooth texture reminded him of his mother's fingers when she straightened his collar.
Footsteps sounded outside the curtain, very light. Then came his third uncle's lowered voice: "Shiliu, are you asleep yet?" "No." His third uncle did not enter, only speaking from outside the curtain: "Stay alert tonight. These tribes… have some old customs. If someone slips into your tent, don't make a fuss, but also don't… well, you're still young, just tie the curtain tightly." Ma Shiliu was startled, then understood, his face heating up: "I know, Third Uncle."
The footsteps faded away. Ma Shiliu followed the advice and repeatedly checked the tent curtain's tie rope, tying it into a dead knot. Then he lay down, listening to the increasingly lively singing and dancing outside.
Night deepened, and the clamor gradually quieted. Desert nights turned cold quickly; Ma Shiliu wrapped the blanket tightly around himself, staring at the dim yellow halo cast by the oil lamp on the tent roof. Just as sleepiness crept over him, he suddenly heard a rustling sound. Very light, very cautious, like a small animal digging in the sand. He instantly woke, holding his breath. The sound came from the bottom of the curtain. By the light of the oil lamp, he saw the coarse-cloth curtain near the ground being pushed up into a small bulge, and then the edge of the curtain was lifted a corner—a very small corner.
The first thing to poke in was a strand of hair. Under the dim yellow light, the hair was dazzlingly white—not the pale white of an elder, but like fresh snow, like the finest silk, carrying a faint luster. Then came a pair of eyes. Ma Shiliu had never seen such blue in his life. Not the light blue of the sky, not the cyan blue on porcelain, but a deep, almost transparent blue, as if the core color of polar glaciers and the deepest seawater of the Mediterranean had been blended together. The eyes were very large, the lashes excessively long; at this moment they peered in timidly, carrying curiosity, shyness, and a trace of panic at being caught doing something naughty. The instant their gazes met, those blue eyes widened abruptly, then "whoosh" retreated.
The curtain corner fell back. The tent returned to silence. Ma Shiliu's heart pounded.
He remembered his third uncle's words, and his palms grew a little sweaty. But after a few breaths, that small corner was lifted again. This time more slowly, more hesitantly.
That small head poked in again—golden long hair somewhat tousled, skin as white as the finest porcelain body, the tip of her nose slightly upturned, lips a pale pink. She looked one or two years younger than him, wearing a linen dress washed to a faded white, with simple blue floral embroidery at the collar. She lay there, revealing only her head and a tiny bit of shoulder, her blue eyes staring at him without blinking, long lashes trembling like startled butterfly wings. She seemed to want to speak; her lips moved, but no sound came out, and her cheeks quickly flushed red, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears. This was not one of those mature, alluring tribal women. This was just a little girl, innocently imitating adult behavior, but when she actually reached him she didn't even know how to begin, left only with eyes full of bewilderment. Ma Shiliu suddenly no longer felt nervous; he even felt like smiling.
He slowly sat up, trying to make his movements look calm. Then he picked up the leather pouch beside him and poured some warm milk tea into the pottery bowl—it had been given by the oasis women that afternoon, with a milky aroma mixed with the fresh sweetness of some plant. He also took a honey cake sprinkled with black sesame seeds. He gently pushed the bowl and the cake toward the curtain, offering her the friendliest smile he could manage. The blue eyes blinked, looking at the food, then at him. After a moment's hesitation, she actually crawled in from under the curtain. Her movements were light, like a kitten; once inside, she still knelt at the doorway position, a few steps away from him, hands properly placed on her knees, though her eyes couldn't help glancing at the steaming bowl of milk tea. Ma Shiliu pointed at the milk tea and made a "drink" gesture. She understood, carefully picking up the bowl. The bowl was a bit large for her small hands; she brought it to her lips and took a small sip. The sweet fragrance of the milk tea made her eyes brighten slightly; then she sipped in small mouthfuls and quickly finished the entire bowl.
After drinking, she subconsciously licked her lips, the pink tip of her tongue flashing briefly. She set the bowl down and resumed her reserved sitting posture, though the shyness in her eyes had lessened a little, replaced by curiosity as she secretly observed him and the things in the tent.
Her gaze swept over his open pack, revealing Central Plains clothing and that copy of Records of Western Regions Customs. The tent was very quiet; the oil lamp occasionally crackled with tiny sparks. Ma Shiliu looked at her loose golden hair and suddenly remembered the tortoiseshell hairpin his mother had given him. Maybe… she would like it? He took out the hairpin from his inner pocket. The warm, smooth amber color flowed with soft light under the lamp, its intertwined lotus patterns exquisitely intricate.
He held it in his palm and offered it to her. The blue eyes suddenly widened. She stared at the hairpin, her gaze filled with pure, unhidden amazement and delight. She looked at the hairpin, then at him, as if confirming whether it was for her. Ma Shiliu nodded, pointed at her loose long hair, and made a gesture of pinning it on. A smile bloomed on her face—in that instant, Ma Shiliu felt the entire tent light up.
She carefully, almost reverently, picked up the hairpin from his palm, examining the patterns under the light with her fingers gently stroking them. Then she tried to pin it in her hair, trying several times but always failing; the slippery golden hair would not cooperate. Ma Shiliu shifted forward a little and reached out his hand. She was startled for a moment, then understood, turned her back to him, and handed the hairpin back. Ma Shiliu gently gathered a strand of her soft, slightly cool golden hair by her ear. The strands were as fine as silk, sliding through his fingertips. He carefully pinned the tortoiseshell hairpin in place.
The deep-brown tortoiseshell complemented her snow-white skin and brilliant golden hair, looking exceptionally harmonious and beautiful. She immediately turned around, carefully touching the hairpin on her head with her hand, her eyes sparkling as she looked at him, lips pursed but the smile overflowing from the corners of her eyes and brows. She gently swayed her body in place, and the hairpin twinkled faintly with the movement.
Then, as if remembering something, her smile paused for a moment, and she showed an expression of serious thought. She lowered her head, reached to her neck, and untied a thin leather cord. At the end of the cord hung a gemstone. She held it in both hands and offered it to him. Ma Shiliu's breath caught. It was a sapphire. Not large, about the size of a thumbnail, but its color was astonishingly pure—exactly the same blue as her eyes, deep and pure, as if the color of the clearest night sky and the clearest seawater had been fused together.
It was simply set in a rough silver-white metal mount, the edges polished smooth. Under the dim yellow light of the oil lamp, it seemed as if starlight slowly swirled, gathered, and dispersed inside the gem, presenting a tranquil and mysterious halo. This was not some exquisite jewelry; it was more like a solidified droplet of living blue water. She placed the necklace in his palm, then pointed at him and at the hairpin on her own head, her face wearing a solemn expression as if performing an extremely important ritual. The leather cord still carried her body warmth; the sapphire felt slightly cool to the touch. Ma Shiliu wanted to say it was too precious and wanted to refuse, but looking into her blue eyes filled with sincerity, all the words stuck in his throat. In the end, he simply clenched the gem tightly and nodded vigorously at her: "Thank you."
She seemed to understand, and her smile grew even brighter. After sitting a little longer in the tent, feeling awkward, she pointed outside and then at herself. Ma Shiliu nodded. She then slipped out of the tent as lightly as when she had come, disappearing into the night. The curtain fell, and the tent returned to quiet, with only the light of the oil lamp and the slightly warm sapphire in his palm.
Ma Shiliu lay back on the blanket, raising the gem to his eyes. Light passed through it, casting a small patch of swaying blue light spots on the tent roof, like a miniature, flowing lake. He looked at it for a long time, until his eyelids grew heavy, then carefully wound the leather cord around his wrist and tied a knot. That night, he dreamed of a blue sea, with golden light points floating upon it.
The next morning, the oasis awoke in thin mist. Birdsong was crisp; cooking smoke curled gently. The caravan packed up early, preparing to depart. The spring guardian Hassan and several elders brought ample water and dry provisions, along with a small bag of precious salt.
"Follow the direction of sunset to the place with three crooked-neck poplar trees—the ones you saw on the way here—then turn west by north." The spring guardian Hassan drew a simple map on the ground with a twig. "Walk another five days and you will reach 'White Camel Spring,' where there is a permanent caravan post station." Old Hassan squatted on the ground, looking extremely attentive, repeatedly confirming every detail. The wrinkles on his face seemed a little smoother today, but deep in his eyes there remained an indelible confusion—as a guide who had walked this sand sea for forty years, the existence of this oasis had shaken his entire understanding of this land.
Ma Shiliu helped the hands re-tie the goods onto the camel backs. His gaze searched involuntarily. Soon, under the oldest date palm by the lake, he saw her. She had braided her golden long hair, and that tortoiseshell hairpin was pinned at the tip of the braid, gently swaying with her head movements.
Today she had changed into a light-blue dress and was squatting by the water, playing with the surface with her hand. Seeming to sense his gaze, she lifted her head and looked over. Across half the oasis, their eyes met. The morning light outlined her whole body in a faint golden halo; those blue eyes appeared even clearer in the light. She looked at him for a moment, then, very slowly, raised her hand and waved gently. A strange warm current surged in Ma Shiliu's heart. He also raised his hand and waved back at her.
His third uncle called him from afar: "Shiliu! We're leaving!" He took one last look at the oasis: emerald water, green trees, people of different skin colors living harmoniously together, and that golden-haired figure wearing the tortoiseshell hairpin. Then he turned, climbed onto the camel. The camel bells rang, and the caravan slowly moved off, leaving the oasis and stepping once more into the boundless yellow sand.
The camels' hooves stepped on the sand, producing dull thuds.
Ma Shiliu couldn't help turning back again and again. The oasis grew smaller and smaller in his sight, first becoming a green patch, then a blurry dot, and finally disappearing completely behind the undulating sand dunes on the horizon. It was as if that patch of vitality, that pool of emerald water, those friendly people, and that blue-eyed girl had all been nothing more than a too-beautiful illusion conjured by the sand sea's mirage. Only the sapphire tied with a leather cord on his right wrist pressed against his skin, transmitting a hard yet slightly cool touch; its deep blue occasionally peeked out from his sleeve cuff, reminding him of the reality of last night. "Don't look anymore," Chen Wu on the neighboring camel said hoarsely. "Some things in the desert are simply not meant to be kept." Ma Shiliu said nothing, only gripping the reins tighter.
The caravan advanced in silence. After walking for about an hour, Old Hassan suddenly reined in his camel, pointing at an anomaly on a sand dune ahead: "That's…" His third uncle urged his camel forward.
In the leeward side of the sand dune, half-buried white objects. Not stones. Ma Shiliu narrowed his eyes to look carefully, and his heart tightened—it was bones. Not just one set, but many, scattered chaotically; some had already been polished smooth by wind and sand, some were still quite fresh. Camel skeletons, and… human ones.
"It's a caravan," his third uncle jumped down from the camel and squatted to examine them. "Look at the way these skulls are shattered… struck by heavy objects. The goods have been looted."
The atmosphere grew heavy. Everyone instinctively tightened their grip on their weapons. Ma Shiliu felt his mouth go dry. This was the real Silk Road—not only sandstorms and thirst, but also death and plunder. "Keep moving, pick up the pace," his third uncle remounted his camel. "We must reach a place to camp before dark."
For the rest of the journey, Ma Shiliu no longer looked back. He gripped the reins tightly, his gaze fixed on his third uncle's back ahead, ears pricked up listening for any unusual sound around them. The sapphire on his wrist swayed gently with the camel's steps, occasionally knocking against the saddle and producing a faint tinkling sound. The sound was very light, but in the boundless silence it was exceptionally clear.